Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 November 1874 — DEAD LETTERS. [ARTICLE]

DEAD LETTERS.

A short space of two days and his vacation would commence. Two weeks! But two weeks were two years of fun, two centuries of real enjoyment, two eternities of rest, compared to the constant drag, drag in that lonely business which took up all his day hours in work and all his night hours in dreams. Two weeks away from the constant reading of letters which were written for other eyes than his! How he ever got into the Dead-letter Office he' couldn’t say, and how he ever staid there without growing wild to the extent of pulling out all his hair and ramming pens into his brown eyes he couldn’t for the life of him tell. He had staid on two years and was much honored, in a small way, as a skillful clerk in the department. He couldn’t tell why again. In fact, his career was a series of “ couldn’t-tell-whys,” which, however, were the cogs of the wheels which kept his life agoing. Casual Observer might have told why he was considered one of the best clerks in the department, and said Observer would have remarked that it was because he There! I’ve got so far without using a name, and I hope(J I’d get clear through * the story without committing myself; but it’s no use. These pronouns are terribly exacting things, and I shall have to get a name for the “ he” before the last dash or I shall be unable to proceed any further. Well, Tom will do, won’t, it? Tom’s a name, and there are lots of Toms in Washington and several Toms in the Dead-letter Office. Now, then, we’ll take another start with Tom and the Observer. I say that the Observer would have remarked that it (go back a few lines for the explanation of the “ it”) was because Tom had a very tender heart in his possession. A sad thing to have a tender heart when you’re dealing with persons, they say. Tom thought it was sadder when dealing with letters. He would choke fifty times each day while reading some earnest, heart-felt epistle which, despite the love and fidelity a mother’s hand had buried in the lines, had miscarried, nor would ever reach a dear son’s eyes. Or perhaps it was a father’s strong call—strong in tears and strong in love—which would never bring back to the home-fold a straying daughter..;•• The letters Tom read wittf a heartache, which spread like neuralgia, and somehow filled his whole body with an untold pain, were by the thousand a year; but his interest in the sad cases was never flagging, and he always made a good push to have the letters wjiich came from loving hands for loved?ones tak'e one more chance of reaching their destination. If Tom’s successes had been each a block of granite the Washington Monument would have been completed over eleven months ago. Tom was to have two weeks’ vacation

—two weeks, commencing in two days. He wasn’t often idle; but this morning he held one of a batch of letters —epistolary corpses—and sat thinking of anything but his work. Where should he go in vacation? There was no mother, or brother, or sister waiting for him to come home. There were no kisses of welcome waiting for him among green hills or by pleasant, shining waters. Where should he go? Heigho! He couldn’t make up his mind. With a shake, like a cat awaking, he came back to his work and gazed on the one letter from many in a pile before him he had semi-unconsciously taken up. The direction of the letter was as follows; * Jffes Clara F. Dennett, St. Albans, ~ Vermont. The postmark bore the name of Providence, R. 1., and date of July 20. On the other side of the envelope was a pretty monogram of three letters, F. H. W., or W. H. F., or H. W. F., or some combination, Tom couldn’t decide which. So he opened the letter and read: Clara—My heart is nigh breaking. May I not come back? I was wholly wrong; but my love for you made me unreasonably exacting and unwilling to yield. Forgive me, for Heaven’s sake, and say I may come to you. ‘ I will wait one week more in Providence to hear from you. Do write. Frank. No date and no signature. “ Just like a man in love!” said Tom. “The only thing settled is that the first letter of that monogram is an F, a blue F. That doesn’t amount to anything. I don’t know the second letter —I mean which it is.” Somehow he was led to put the letter one side instead of throwing it in the waste receptacle. He thought he’d like to look at that monogram once more, it was such a pretty one. Five?' six, seven r eigbt, -nine-more-let-ters read, and nothing in the shape of business yet. Number ten! Number ten was in a small, delicate hand, directed as follows: Mr. Frank H. Wendell, St. Albans, Vermont. This letter bore date of July 21, and postmark Fitchburg, Mass. Tom had quite forgotten for the moment the other St. Albans letter, but of a sudden he cried out to himself: “Hullo! St. Albans is full of business to-day!” He then opened and read: Mr Dkar Frank—l only nope you have gone back to St. Albans, for Heaven alone knows how else this may reach you. I take my only chance, it seems to me, left for happiness. I must write, since my heart will not let me sit longer and feed on my own sorrow without breaking. Dear, since you went away from me on that sad, sad night, not one moment of peace, no day when a song was pleasant to hear, no day when I could sit silently glad, has come to me. Only longing for you, I was proud, and angry that you could not trust me; and though I could easily have explained I would not. I, for that short naif hour, believed I could bear everything, since I bore your harsh words (as they then seemed). Now I know I was wrong. Darling, will you not write to me? Just one word to say you forgive me, and, if you can, say you still love me? Shall I never see you again ? Dear heart, I was never anything but true to you, and that I can show yon if you will come to me or Jet me write to you. Will you not write to me? Just one letter, and I . wi f l bless you each day I live, if God makes me live a thousand years. Always being, I am still, only yours, Clara F. Dennett, Wallace street, Fitchburg. P. S. —I am With my cousin, parsing the summer, and, unless I hear from you, trust I may never return to St. Albans. “By Jove!” said Tom, “here are two which go together. Where’s that other letter? Yes! as I’m a poor, lonely mortal, I’ve got the two in a heap and now I must deal them a new hand.” (Tom was rather given to playing cards; therefore his language.) Bo he put the two aside and left them in a closer union as letters than they had been as beings. If Tom had been a mesmerist or a believer in mesmerism he would have probably wondered if the joining of those two letters would have any influence on the day’s life of -the two writers. As he wasn’t he didn’t; i. e., wasn’t a mesmerist or a believer, he didn’t wonder; he only commenced to form a plan for his vacation. The commencing ended just haTf an hour after his day’s work was over. “ I’m going to Providence day after tomorrow, Mrs. Wilkins,” said Tom that evening to his landlady. “On business, Mr. Tom?” (Of course she didn’t say “ Mr. Tom,” but it will do just as well.) “ No’m; it’s my vacation.” “ I hope you’ll have a nice time.” “My trust is in Providence,” said Tom, a little irreligiously, but he couldn’t resist the pun. “ And I’ve always wanted a clam bake, and they do say there’s no spot on the earth for a clam bake like the little back-yard they call Rhode Island.” Day.. after to-morrow became to-day and TOm started. Ere long Tom has smoked a whole cigar, and got several miles on his way toward Providence, R. I. A quest he calls it; an attempt to find out Frank H. Wendell, and then to re-introduce him to Clara F. Dennett. He lived with these two all his journey. Clara had blue eyes , and fair hair, he was confident; Frank wore a slight mustache and was rather thin; he was certain; and so he built up two imaginary persons, and even found himself foolishly trying to fit his imaginations on to fellow-travelers. Providence at last. Hotel a few moments after. Tea after dressing. Plenty of time, thought Tom; and he didn’t go out that night. There was no harm in a brief perusal of the city directory, however; and so Tom stood at the hotel counter and monopolized the directory chained to the marble. “ W-a—W-e W-e-n —W-e-h-d—Wendell. Here it is,” said Tom, muttering to himself. There were a few Wendells, but no Frank or Francis H., not even a simple Frank or Francis. .' “ Do you know a Mr. Frank Wendell?” queried Tom of the hotel clerk. No, he didn’t, that clerk answered, after he had got through staring at Tom. “ Who’d be likely to know a young fellow about the city?” asked Tom. Well (second long stare), the clerk thought he (the clerk) would, and he’d never heard of Frank Wendell or any other Wendell, except an old fellow who sometimes came round to buy bottles at the hotel. That Wasn’t the one the gentleman meant, was it? -Tom thought not. Tom was manifestly brought up standing. So he wentto bed.

Next morning he had another look at the letters. The delicately written one gave him no clue for the present. Certainly the other didn’t. Tom put them both on the mantel-piece and turned to brush his hair at the mirror (a two-by-one-and-a-half bit of looking-glass). While Tom’s auburn locks were being “..fixed” a nice little gust of wind “ unfixed” them; but at last his hair was dressed. Tom turned to take the letters and— “ Confound it, if they haven’t tumbled into the pitcher of water!” There was such a receptacle on the table under the mantel-piece. “ Now I must dry them, I suppose. Just my cursed luck!" He took them on to dry land, the shipwrecked letters, and patted them gently with a towel. The monogram letter had been cut open at one end, but the water had loosened the flap and. it easily turned bacfe - “ Mean ‘ stickum’ they put on these envelopes,” said Tom; and then he paused to read the maker’s name. On the edge of the envelope, in raised letters, was the following: “W. A. Johnson, 51 Blank street.” “By the blood of all the Howards!” cried Tom, “I’ve got it. If my friend, my dear friend, new-found, Johnson doesn’t know for whom he made that monogram, he’d better sell out and go into the fish trade. Peradventure I call at 51 Blank street to-day.” Tom did call. Mr. Johnson was in? “ Yes,” said a nice girl who waited on Tom, and he’d be down in a moment. Johnson came, and Tom asked him a question or two. Johnson said, in substance : “ I made that monogram for Mr. Wendell some time since, and he was then living with an uncle—l think he told me ~st”"(consulting an old order book) “ No. 17 So-and-So street. At any rate there’s where tlfe paper was sent.” ; Tom immediately ordered a monogram for himself out of pure gratitude. He then called at No. 17. Mr. Wendell had been staying there, but had left three days before for Boston. Servant didn’t know whereabouts in Boston. Would inquire of missus. Coming back, servant said missus thought at the Tremont House, if he hadn’t gone to New York. “On the way to Fitchburg,” sententiously said Tom, and took the next train for Boston. Mr. Wendell was stopplng there, said the clerk of the Tremont House. “Here! show the gentleman to No. 85." No one in. . Tom waited around an hour, walked over the burned district and came back. Mr. Wendell had returned and was in his room. Tom went to No. 85 and knocked. “ Come in!” and in he went, to find a young fellow with full beard, tall and quite stout. “So much for my fancy,” said Tom to himself. “ She’ll be fat and a brunette.” “ This is Mr. Wendell?” queried Tom. . “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Excuse my continuing my toilet,” said Wendell, buttoning his shirt coll ar. “ Mr. Frank Wendell?” asked Tom, to make certain. ; - “ Yes, sir; Frank Wendell.” Then Tom went to the very bottom ot the matter, and said: \ “ I come from a friend of yours—Miss Dennett (how Wendell blushed and then turned pale!); she’s also a particular* friendfof mine (though she don’t know it,” said Tom, sotto voce), “ and she would like very much, if you can spare the time, to have you call on her. She’s living in Fitchburg, and ” “ For God’s sake, when does the next train start?” and Wendell was rushing down stairs and grabbing a “ Dial ’’ railroad sheet in less than four seconds. Time enough there was and a little bag was soon packed. Tom thought he’d go down to Fitchburg too to see" the thing out; and he and Wendell went down together. They went over to Wallace street and hit the house after three trials. Tom would wait in the hall, he thought. Tom heard one scream, two kisses, a rush and several other things “too numerous to mention,” and was on the point of crawling out the front-door when the heavy hand of Wendell was laid on his shoulder. “ Come in and explain this thing. She says she never heard of you before!” “No more has she,” said Tom, laughing ; and seating himself on the sofa he explained the whole affair. I’m not certain, but I believe Clara kissed him. At all events, a few days after he went back to Washington a happy fellow, having made others so happy. That was a year ago nearly. Casual Observer told me a day or twO since that Tom had received cards to the wedding of F. H. Wendell and Clara F. Dennett, to come off a week from next Monday, and also that Tom had been corresponding for some tiihe with Miss Emma Dennett, a sister of Clara’s. Furthermore, Casual said; “If you want to hear two people rave in praise of another fellow, you should hear Miss Dennett and Mr. Wendell talk about Tom.”— Harper's Bator ■ ' -- ■ -r, ■■■

A prisoner in the State Prison at Charlestown, Mass., has just been detected in an imposition which he successfully maintained for two years and a halfl hoping tp get a pardon. He took to his bed nearly three years ago and has lain there ever since, stating that his lower limbs were paralyzed. A few days ago the prison surgeon, who was by no means satisfied with the fellow’s statement, administered ether to him, when he got out of bed and danced-around the room. When the effects of the ether passed away the prisoner got into bed. again, where he still remains. - ■ , ... While Bostonia sending missionaries to preach tb&,Gospel in China, says the Congregaiionali»t, there comes a Chinaman to preach the religion of Confucius to Boston. Wong Chin Foo is the name of this sanguine Oriental, who thus seeks to turn the tables on the irrepressible America]). He presented the claims of Confucianism at the Parker Memorial Hall on a recent Sunday. Rice is now the best paying crop of the South. Highland rice yields twice as many bushels to the acre as Indian corn.